


Secrets

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [15]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: Brennan is trying to hide from yet more lessons on Orlesian genealogy. Cassandra helps.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 11
Kudos: 28





	Secrets

Hiding from Josephine is easier said than done.

His quarters are out. It would be the first place she’d look, and she has no compunction about picking his lock if she thinks he’s avoiding her. (Come to think of it, he’d always blamed that little talent of hers on Leliana, but having recently learned about her colourful history as a bard, he should really apologise to his spymaster.)

The library or rookery are also out. The second place she’d look.

He tried the kitchens not too long ago, which worked for a little bit, until one of her runners happened to come with a message for the cook and found him at the table dicing carrots. So she’ll probably check there just in case.

There’s a small library in the cellars near the kitchen, where he has considered hiding before, but there’s a distinctly creepy air to the tiny room, and he’s fairly convinced that if he shuts the door, he’ll be locked in there forever. Or transported somewhere far from Skyhold by some nefarious lingering magic. There are also almost certainly spiders.

The tavern would be fun, but it wouldn’t last. Even Bull bows to the ambassador, and he doubts getting drunk at this time of the afternoon would lead to anything other than a double headache. One from the hangover, and one from the lecture that Josephine would invariably revel in giving him.

The stables aren’t a terrible idea, but Dennet still hasn’t forgiven him for that herd of Dracolisk mounts that had finally turned up while he was in the Exalted Plains, and the horse-master would certainly sell him out to Josephine without a second thought.

If he goes to Cullen’s tower, he’ll no doubt end up in a discussion about the Orlesian Civil War and the pointlessness of having a ball to mask the peace talks. And even though he fully agrees with the commander that it might be a terrible idea, he doesn’t particularly want to listen to him rant about the Game for the inevitable hours he’s capable of ranting. He’d almost rather get tested on the lineage of the Comtesse de Whatever like Josephine wants.

Which leaves…

Well, _that’s_ an idea.

He slips through the keep, down the stairs, walking purposefully. The runners tend to think twice about accosting him if he seems to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

Luckily, Cassandra is exactly where he’s expecting her to be, in her little training area, hacking at the dummy with her practice sword. Interrupting her training tends to leave her in a bad mood, so he leans against the tree to wait, just out of her peripheral vision.

"You are quite distracting, you know?" she says after a minute, without looking around.

He frowns. “How did you know it was me?”

She sheathes the practice sword, wiping her forehead with her sleeve before turning toward him. “The light changes when you are near.”

He’s not sure if she means that literally or figuratively, but either way, it’s the most poetic and beautiful thing he’s heard all day, and he can’t help but take her hand and draw her in close to capture her in a very brief kiss.

“I was hoping we could spend some time together.”

“Cullen, Leliana or Josephine?” she asks, seeing through him in an instant.

He sighs. “Josephine.”

“Avoiding your lessons again?”

“She wants to test me on Orlesian genealogy. _Again_. As if knowing that the Duke de Something Or Other is the second cousin of the Marquis de Something Else is going to help me figure out how to stop whoever wants to assassinate the Empress. Which it _won’t_.”

“I quite agree.”

“And I’m fairly sure I’ve got the hang of the Game now. You just answer questions with more questions, and tell people what they want to hear while moving your face as little as possible. Which must be easier when you have a mask covering half of it. Perhaps Josephine should invest in some to match those terrible uniforms she’s making us all wear. Although, come to think of it, wearing one would probably mean there were even more protocols I’d have to learn. And someone might mistake us for Orlesians.”

“I quite agree,” she repeats, but this time with a coy smile.

“Sorry,” he apologises, ducking his head. “Will you hide me from her? _Protect_ me?”

She steps back, breaking free from the circle of his arms, and just for a moment, he thinks he’s blown his chance. Then she holds out her hand. “Come with me.”

Though he is aware that she sleeps on the top floor of the armoury, rather than in one of the bedrooms of the keep or towers, as he would prefer, he’s never actually been up here. It’s much smaller than he imagined. Less… furniture, too.

“Cassandra, is that a… _bedroll_?”

She grumbles at him, drawing him away from her pitiful excuse for a bed and towards the large window overlooking her training area. Silhouetted against the light, she looks like some kind of holy painting. He can’t help but gather her in his arms again.

It’s hard to imagine how he knew this woman for well over a year, journeyed with her, shared a campfire with her, slept mere feet away from her… and was able to resist kissing her even once. He has no such hesitation now.

He could never grow tired of this.

When she finally pulls back from his lips, she rests her forehead against his. He breathes her in, relishing in the peace that she always seems to give him. The clarity. He’s never felt anything quite like it.

He bumps his nose against hers; unreasonably proud of himself when she laughs. A sweet, joyous sound that he doesn’t hear nearly often enough and would devote the rest of his life to provoking, were it not for the whole ‘Corypheus ending the world’ thing.

Perhaps after.

“Did you have any plans this afternoon?” he asks softly, hoping she says no.

She retreats a little to shake her head, and then tilts it to one side. “Well, I have been meaning to… to talk to you.”

Though he trusts her implicitly not to break his heart, intentionally at least, he can’t help the ache in the pit of his stomach that accompanies her words. Few good things have happened in his life after a lady tells him that she has been ‘meaning to talk to him’.

He gives her waist one last caress, and then steps back, letting his arms fall uselessly to his sides. She frowns slightly at him, and then sighs, cupping his jaw in her hand and smoothing her thumb over his cheekbone for a brief moment, her eyes gazing fondly into his.

“Not about _us_ , you foolish man.”

“Then what? Another quest?”

She sighs again, her hand dropping as she moves past him towards the small table beside her bedroll. There are a heap of books on it. A few smaller novels, including two or three he recognises from the collection he had obtained for her, and under those, the Book of Secrets that the Lord Seeker had given her. She places the novels on the floor, and picks up the large tome.

“This.”

“Should we sit?” he asks, before realising that there actually isn’t really anywhere _to_ sit up here. Aside from the bedroll and two small tables, there are two small benches, but neither look like they could bear much more weight than the sword that is currently resting on one of them.

She sits, on the floor with her back against the wall beneath the window. The easy way she does it suggests this may be a common reading nook for her, and he immediately makes a mental note to acquire some cushions for it. From his own couch, if nothing else.

The book remains closed on her lap as he sits down beside her, with a lot less grace. When he’s finally settled, he looks down at her. Her fingers play across the cover of the book, tracing the design over and over again, her eyes fixed on it. 

“This tome has passed from Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker, since the time of the old Inquisition. And now it falls to me.”

“Are you all right? You look drained.”

“On the contrary, it’s a delight. I’m riveted,” she says with a wry smile.

“Oh, you’re _joking_!”

She leans her head against his shoulder for a moment, and he almost feels the brief flash of levity evaporating from her. He reaches over, lifting one of her hands from the book and taking it in his own, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Tell me. Whatever it is.”

“Do you know what the Rite of Tranquillity is?”

He frowns a little. “Yes. I can’t imagine there’s any mage who doesn’t. It hangs over our heads as soon as we discover our powers. When I was an apprentice, one of my classmates underwent the Rite. Niels. He was… nice. Quiet. A little over-sensitive sometimes, perhaps. We studied together in the library most evenings. He went in for his Harrowing, and… something happened. I never found out exactly what. But when he came out, there was a sunburst on his forehead and they moved him out of the dormitory that very afternoon. I still saw him, sometimes, in the library, but there was barely anything left of the person I knew.”

She squeezes his hand. “I am sorry. It should only be used on those who cannot control their abilities… but that has not always been the case.”

He nods. It’s hardly news. Ostwick was apparently one of the better Circles, with fewer corrupt templars, but even there it had been relatively common for misbehaving apprentices or ambitious enchanters to be threatened with the Rite if they overstepped their bounds. _Threatened_ only, at least, he thinks. There were few Tranquil at Ostwick, and none, he thinks, without reason. But since he left the Circle, he has heard of all kinds of atrocities. It does make him wonder.

“Does the book say it was used for other things?”

“No. As a Seeker, I looked into… abuses. Mages made Tranquil as punishment. What finally began the Mage Rebellion was the discovery that the Rite of Tranquillity could be reversed. The Lord Seeker at the time covered it up, harshly. There were deaths. It was dangerous knowledge. The shock of its discovery in addition to what happened in Kirkwall…”

He isn’t surprised. The causes of the rebellion had been murky and much debated. Anders’ actions in Kirkwall had been the catalyst, of course, but it could not have been the only factor. It was supposed to be part of the talks at the Conclave, before that all exploded too.

“But it appears we’ve _always_ known how to reverse the rite,” she continues. “From the beginning.”

He frowns again. “Why keep that knowledge a secret?”

She almost pulls away, but he keeps her hand in his.

“We _created_ the Rite of Tranquillity, she says, pushing the book off her lap and onto the floor beside her as if she can’t bear to be in contact with it a moment longer. “To become a Seeker, I spent months in a vigil, emptying myself of all emotion.”

“I remember you telling me.”

“I was made Tranquil, and did not even know. Then the vigil summoned a spirit of faith to touch my mind. That broke Tranquillity, and gave me my abilities.”

He doesn’t even know how to process that.

“The Seekers did not share that secret. Not with me, not with the Chantry, not even with…”

“You were made Tranquil and they didn’t even _tell_ you?”

Anger boils his blood. He still has nightmares, every now and then, of looking up into a mirror and seeing a sunburst stamp on his own forehead. A common enough nightmare for a mage. But he never… He didn’t realise it was _possible_ to make a non-mage Tranquil. Let alone…

“ _Cassandra_ …”

She squeezes his hand, twisting so she can cradle his cheek with her other hand. “It was a very long time ago, my love.”

He tilts his head to kiss her palm before she pulls it away. “Even so…”

“There’s more.”

He forces his anger away to deal with later, wishing he could just take the pain away from her. Though, that would probably be little better than the Tranquillity that has already been inflicted on her. He has to do some research. With her, if she’ll let him. He’s never met another Seeker, but he’s seen first-hand what happens to templars when they get old. His uncle had been forced into retirement not long after his Harrowing, unable to remember names or faces, constantly confused. That’s lyrium, of course, and Cassandra doesn’t take it, but what horrors are lurking in her future? Perhaps the book will tell.

How has she been carrying this alone? It has been more than a week since they returned from Caer Oswin, since she opened the book for the first time. He’d been so consumed with the debriefings from the Exalted Plains, the preparations for Halamshiral, the planning out and executing of the first steps of their courtship, he hadn’t even thought to ask her what secrets it held.

“Tell me.”

She shakes her head. “We would be here all night. But Lucius was not wrong about the Order. I thought to rebuild the Seekers once victory was ours. Now, I’m not certain if it _deserves_ to be rebuilt.”

The Seekers are everything to her. He’s been well aware of that almost as long as he’s known her. She had called them her true family.

“What do you mean?”

“I do not think the Seekers have been doing the Maker’s work. Not truly. Perhaps we believed it once. The original Inquisition came to be during a terrible time. But now? We harboured secrets and let them fester. We acted to survive, but not to serve. That is not the Maker’s work.”

He can’t let her just give up on this. Not right now, with her emotions so high.

“But if you did rebuild the Seekers, how would you do it?”

She gives him a wan smile. “I can’t be the only one remaining. We were always spread to the winds, and some may still be out there. I would find them, one by one. We would all read this book. No more secrets. Then together we would establish a new charter. The Maker’s work, in truth.”

“You keep saying that, but what _is_ the Maker’s work?”

“There is no way to know for certain. That is why we must _seek_ it out. Perhaps we lost our way because we stopped looking.”

He gives her a fond smile. “If anyone can rebuild them into something worthwhile, you can.”

She still looks doubtful. “But are they _worth_ rebuilding?”

“You could _make_ them worth it.”

“I… will think on your words. Thank you, I could not have done this on my own.”

“I’m here for you, Cassandra. Always, I promise. No matter what.”

In response, she curls into him, and he guides her onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her as if he can protect her from the chaos that she clearly feels. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he breathes in the scent of her hair. Jasmine, he thinks. Something else too, that he can’t identify.

They could stay here forever…

“ _Inquisitor_?” the sound of Josephine’s yell cuts through the peace.

Cassandra straightens, moving as if to slip away, and he tightens his arms around her.

“Maybe if we’re _very_ quiet, she’ll go away,” he whispers, lips close to her ear in a vain attempt to stay almost silent.

She raises an eyebrow.

He gives her a pleading look.

She stifles a grin behind her hand.

There is the sound of footsteps on the stairs, light but angry, and he steels himself to start apologising, when suddenly Cassandra’s lips seal across his, her hands threading through his hair and leaving it unmistakably ruffled, her legs moving to straddle his hips. He happily succumbs to her advances, trusting she has a plan.

“Oh…” he dimly hears the ambassador’s gasp, and Cassandra pulls back with a smug grin on her face.

“Yes, Josephine?” she says, without turning around. “Did you need something?”

“The Inquisitor…”

“Is busy at the moment,” Cassandra cuts in, her tone giving no room for argument. “Unless it is an emergency?”

“No. He was supposed to be…”

“If it is not an emergency, he will see you at the council meeting this evening.”

“This evening,” Josephine echoes.

He risks a look over Cassandra’s shoulder at the ambassador, who is blushing slightly, wringing her hands without her usually ever-present quill and clipboard to fiddle with.

“Thank you, Josephine,” he says, a little sheepishly.

She won’t forget this, he knows. He’s likely to pay for it later, especially in the council meeting, but that’s a problem for his future self. His present self is quite happy to watch Josephine stifle a small giggle and descend back down the staircase.

“I’m busy, am I?” he asks, when he’s quite certain that she is out of earshot.

Cassandra gives him a fond smile, heat in her eyes as she presses against him.

“Very,” she promises. “You asked me to protect you; you didn’t say how.”

“Might not work on the battlefield, but I approve. Greatly.”

She laughs lightly.

And goes back to kissing him.


End file.
